


Operating Under a Different Set of Rules

by profmeteor



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profmeteor/pseuds/profmeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey and Woody break into an amusement park at night and have sex in the Tunnel of Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operating Under a Different Set of Rules

One of the perks of being a ninja is that there really aren’t any locked doors. No Trespassing signs are just kind of — cute window dressing, a reminder that the normal world operates under different parameters, ones that don’t consider life-saving missions or cross-city battles or the incredibly strong desire to break into an amusement park at three in the morning with one’s boyfriend and explore.

It’s not really the date Mikey wants — he’d much prefer to go on rides that are active, all lit-up and bright with cheer, to move among the bustle of humans, to listen to children laughing and screaming, to catch the glances of another couple and exchange a moment of understanding. Still, all things considered, it’s pretty great, because anything he does with Woody is automatically better; they could be cleaning public bathrooms for hours and it would still be fun. Woody’s that kind of guy. So when they clamber over the tall fences by the back of the amusement park and collapse into the grass, laughing, when they lapse into silence and have a moment to look at the vast machinery standing over them and the sawdust-covered paths, it’s great. Really great. Mikey is glowing enough for the whole park.

They end up smoking in the highest car on the teacup ride, huddled together and trading the joint back and forth while the car rocks lazily on its hinges. Mikey already wants to kiss the smoke out of Woody’s mouth, to swallow him down, but he doesn’t want to stop, here — he wants to explore more — so he keeps it to touches, slipping his fingers against Woody’s when they pass the joint, touching the inside of Woody’s thigh as they talk. By the time they finish the joint, Woody is buzzed and laughing, but Mikey is blasted, feeling good, and everything is funny, the world is beautiful, the corrugated metal of the ride is the greatest thing his feet have ever known.

They stumble off the ride in search of others.

They clamber halfway up the Ferris wheel before Woody has to stop, shaking a little but still laughing, and they slump in the seat and start to kiss. Mikey loves kissing when they’re high, loves that it brings Woody’s patience to the forefront, because he can suck on Mikey’s bottom lip for ages, can teach him how to French kiss with slow, slow flicks of his tongue, can sit back and sigh and murmur encouragement while Mikey takes his time learning the intimate curves of his mouth, as he tests every edge. When a gust of wind rocks the seat, they pause, a few inches away from each other — Woody’s eyes are bright white circles, shocked by the sudden reminder of where they are, what they’re doing, and it’s the funniest thing Mikey’s ever seen, because how do you even forget being on a Ferris wheel? He bursts out laughing, sagging against Woody, and then Woody is laughing, too, with little hiccups.

Mikey is still snickering under his breath as he climbs out of the seat — Woody follows him, at a slower pace, taking care that his footing is sure before edging down. Mikey makes it to the bottom and watches as he struggles, ready to catch him if he has to, teasing him in the meantime: “C’mon, dude, are you really gonna let a turtle beat you in a race?”

"Life is only a race if you make it one!" Woody shouts back, but his voice is trembling a little, and Mikey bites his tongue, still smiling.

When he’s safe on the ground, Mikey lunges at him, kisses him like Woody just won a gold medal in the Olympics, like he’s never been more proud of anyone in his life.

They light another joint as they return to their wandering. Woody holds it a little closer to his mouth, shielding himself with the smoke until the adrenaline’s worn off; Mikey walks close enough that their arms touch, inhales Woody’s cast-off smoke, waves the joint away when Woody offers it every other hit because he’s still pretty high.

They steal some cotton candy from a stand — or, well, Woody leaves a few bucks on the counter, weighted down with a rock — and they scramble over the fence of an ancient-looking Tunnel of Love, with a sign all washed-out pink and rusted at the edges. The water is cool as they wade their way in; Mikey coos and shouts just to hear the echoes talking back. They wade until they can’t see the light of the tunnels anymore; Mikey fishes a flashlight out of his belt to light the way, though there are dim automatic lights along the way, just enough to cast a pink haze over them, to make Woody’s eyes shine.

Halfway through the maze, they collapse on an old white swan boat still trapped in the water — it rocks under the weight, creaks a little in protest. The cotton candy wrapper crinkles as Woody opens it, and right away Mikey is fishing for some. Woody drops the wrapper at the bottom of the swan and keeps the stick steady, just watches as Mikey eats it piece by piece until his fingers are sticky; when it’s almost all gone, Woody finally pinches a thick piece between his fingers and holds it out to Mikey, a silent offer, and Mikey laps it from his fingers with a little groan. He swallows down the sweet film from his mouth and dips his head back down, licks the traces of it from Woody’s fingers, his thumb, licks the sensitive skin between his fingers. Woody makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat — pulls his hand away just long enough to break off another piece, which Mikey takes gratefully, moaning in the back of his throat as he does.

When he moves to clamber into Woody’s lap, Woody is already hard, his cock pressing against his jeans; he hopes that when he kisses Woody, the sweet taste clings to his tongue. Woody drops the stick — touches Mikey’s arms, so slow and gentle that Mikey is embarrassed by the eager way he kissed him, but Woody opens his mouth and leans into Mikey, deepens the kiss with a soft groan. Mikey slides his hands up the back of Woody’s neck, threads his fingers through Woody’s hair — it’s always so soft, a texture he’s dreamt about, the sleek thread of his hair against Mikey’s throat, his hands, his thighs. He closes his fingers, tugs, and Woody bucks his hips, whimpers into Mikey’s mouth.

There — that does it, Woody is grabbing the backs of Mikey’s thighs and tipping him over on the seat, scrabbling for purchase. He leans back, takes a moment to study Mikey in the darkness, then leans forward and presses a kiss under Mikey’s eye — another one, down his cheek, nuzzling and kissing a sticky path down to the corner of Mikey’s mouth. Mikey turns his head, seeking him, but Woody keeps moving, down his jaw, down his throat. Mikey wraps his legs around Woody’s waist, bucks up against him, hopes the way he’s grinding against Woody’s cock feels as good for him as it does for Mikey. Woody’s breath puffs against Mikey’s neck. He traces a hand up the back of Mikey’s thigh — traces until his hand is under Mikey, until he’s brushing at Mikey’s slit. Mikey yelps and leans his head back — it’s always a shock of pleasure, that first touch, something he’s never really ready for. Like having a weak orgasm, a shiver through his body. Woody sucks at his throat and brushes again, a little firmer, this time, and Mikey relaxes his legs so Woody has the space to touch him, so he can fix his mistake of not shedding Woody’s jeans right away.

He’s too high, still, to work off Woody’s jeans with any efficiency — but between the two of them, their hands bumping and their bodies rocking the boat, they manage to tug Woody’s jeans down to his knees. That’s more than enough as far as Mikey’s concerned, especially when Woody is back against him, his hard cock grinding against Mikey’s slit instead of his fingers; he loves how soft Woody’s skin is, especially there, free from callouses and scars, loves the vulnerability of Woody letting him see it, to touch it, to know him like this.

When Mikey’s cock drops from its sheathe, Woody smiles against his throat. “Yeah,” he says, which is all that really needs to be said. “Yeah, that’s good,” and then he is rubbing their cocks together, grinding with quick, sloppy movements that make Mikey’s pulse skyrocket.

Mikey comes before Woody — bucks up with a whine and comes all over his stomach, on Woody’s shirt, and Woody reaches between them to jerk him off as he does, twisting the head of Mikey’s cock and dragging it out for as long as he can, until it’s too sensitive and Mikey’s whimpering.

When Mikey comes back to earth, Woody is leaning over him, jerking himself off with relaxed strokes, like he could watch Mikey like this all day.

"Here," Mikey says, fumbling for Woody, "let me," but Woody shakes his head and tilts his head back, coming on Mikey’s plastron and thighs. It’s the most beautiful thing Mikey’s ever seen, and he can’t even see it that well. He could make a shrine to this, to this moment, to what it means to him.

They say nothing for a while, holding each other, cradled by the old plastic of the swan.

"Aw," Mikey says, after a while, "your shirt…"

"It’ll wash out," Woody mumbles into his shoulder. "No worries, my friend."

And in this moment, Mikey’s pretty sure it’s true — that there isn’t, and never could be, a thing to worry about in the world.


End file.
